Songs_of_the_Satyrs (21 page)

I walk home after the meeting, drink a bottle of Kentucky bourbon, and rub one off before I head to work.

The Labyrinth jazz lounge is a dusky seclusion tucked into a maze of back alleys. Subdued black lights bathe the darkness in a dull purple glow, allowing patrons to haunt the shadows and indulge their vices in private misery.

I mingle around until stage call, and then take up my sax and sit, spotlit on the stage. I drown thought in the bass and snare of the lead-in, tapping a hoof to the underbeat, and then give music the reins.

My “voice” joins in, crisp and as squeaky clean as Cerberus’s balls, what with three heads and all. My sad tormented wail is worthy of the Underworld.

My cheeks swell like a puffer fish trying to blow out birthday candles, as I bare my soul. I’m surprised to find it sadder than I thought.

I think of Marcy and how I can never see her again, lest I be unmasked. I think of the mermaid in the wheelchair struggling, depressed, through her secret coexistence. And I think of myself, enslaved to programmed instincts, routinely suffering insatiable desires.

A fiery dirge rails against the silence, screaming where I cannot, each note a short-lived fairy dancing the air unseen.

And then I think about tomorrow, its bland repetition and bleak prospects, and the tempo falls like Icarus. The band stops now, and it’s only the sax, singing like a well-tuned goose’s lullaby.

I am Orpheus. I am Prometheus. I am a dissatisfied wooden doll pretending I’m a real boy.

Silence comes, accented now by earlier melancholy.

Applause follows. It’s an ovation. I realize I’m shaking and tears have wet my face. Across the bar men and women are raising their glasses. I’ve never played so well before.

In that momentary triumph, spotlighted in the crowd’s eye, I want to rip my fleece cap off and bleat, to reveal myself in the wake of grand approval. Isn’t it better to be hated for who you are than loved for who you’re not?

My resolution falters and then fails as the clapping ceases. I need a drink.

The bartender says it’s on the house. And patrons send a slew of drinks my way.

Drunk, I exit through the blurred gateway, which should be the back door.

The alley outside is as dark and foul as Hades’ short hair. I stumble out with an overflowing tip jar tucked under one arm and a handful of salted barroom peanuts.

“I’m a satyr,” I tell a rat, a bottle, and a trash can.

I start up Mount Olympus’s little nephew. Streetlights are swaying overhead like bulb-sized fireflies. I try to use the line in the concrete between the sidewalk and the curb to walk straight, but it’s not working. I’ve got enough booze in me to intoxicate a Girl Scout troop.

I stop on top to gain my bearings, maybe navigate by the stars. But I’m no Argonaut.

I don’t know where I am, but some guy in an alley does. And so does his knife. The blade slides into my belly like I walked into a hip-high unicorn. I go down like Troy.

Now I’m lying in a puddle of my own blood. The fall shatters my tip jar, sending dollar bills everywhere. The masked man starts stuffing his pockets with red-green currency before reaching into my pocket.

“Not the napkin,” I whisper, grabbing the bandit’s pant leg. He kicks me in the face. My hat goes flying off, unveiling my twisted curling horns.

“Holy shit!” my attacker shouts. “What the fuck?” He throws my money down and takes off running, Marcy’s napkin still in hand.

I struggle to stand, tears running down my face. “Wait!” I scream. “Take the money.” I just wanted to be mugged the same as anybody else. I throw salty peanuts in his direction.

It’s just as well, I tell myself. Marcy would curse and run if she knew.

I’m bleeding. I’m drunk, lost, lonely, and bleeding.

Eventually, I stagger home, gore running warm and sticky through my fingers as I hold my cap over the wound.

I open the door to the apartment lobby, dripping blood onto the glossy tile floor. Lenny puts his porn on pause and looks up. “Darren?”

“Scapegoat,” I confess.

I see his eyes run the gauntlet of emotion: surprise, betrayal, fear, anger . . .

He draws his side arm and fires all ten rounds. One catches me in the chest, and breathing gets hard. Empty, he throws his gun down and runs.

The elevator door opens. Inside, Señora Esperanza stands frozen in horror, holding whimpering Gordita up as a body shield.

“Baa,” I say, spewing blood and spittle. She runs.
“Vaya con Dios,”
I call after her.

I get off on my floor, and Sally’s waiting in the hallway. Her normalcy is surreal. “Hey, Darren.”

“Not tonight, Sally,” I manage between wheezes. “I’m flying to Hollywood.” She nods and leaves without a question.

I unlock the door and enter my apartment, alone as I’d been all day. Somehow, I’m horny and thirsty . . . again.

“Know thyself,” the Oracle says. Dying, my purpose becomes as clear as a ghost wrapped in cellophane.

I strip down to my mythical birthday suit, my hairy goat haunches wet with blood, and walk out on the balcony where my day started at noon.

And here we are, together now. It’s midnight.

Standing on the edge of the rail, I greet the world. “Hello.”

And then I take one small step for a satyr, one giant leap for myth-kind. Pedestrian gasps, camera flashes, and a choir of reporters will assimilate into a breaking-news symphony called “Satyrday.”

Late afternoon melded like liquid metals into early evening. The waft of metropolitan excess, waste, disinfection, and rot—each vying for supremacy—was inescapable. In the courtyard behind the Hotel Syrinx the miasma was even more prominent, as someone had tried to mask the lingering stench of a recent garbage pickup by sprinkling cheap perfume against the bins.

Martin tried not to gag. He coughed into his fist and took deep breaths of his own clean palm. The scent of the liquid soap from the office restroom was anything but comforting, but it was better than the alternative. A scraggly rhododendron mocked him with a shake of its leafy frame.

It was a wonder that plant life existed at all in this human-made cesspit of bricks and glass and mortar. Martin’s hatred of the city had not diminished in the few lackluster years he had lived there. Indeed it had intensified beyond all reasonable proportion. Yet this was where he needed to be, a bustling metropolis of opportunity, the heart of modern progress. It was an affliction he had brought upon himself, one he privately bemoaned but nevertheless endured.

“Is there something you want?”

Martin had been milling about the courtyard for an hour, lost in speculation and growing apprehension, trying to recall who had tipped him off about this relatively unknown rendezvous point. Perhaps an online chat room or an overheard conversation between two licentious execs. It scarcely mattered now.

He smiled at the dark-haired youth eyeing him with reservation . . . or envy, perhaps. Envy at the sight of his fancy shoes, creaseless suit, and necktie. No, not envy—but disdain. Martin had come directly from the office. He had not taken the time to go home and change into something less formal. That path led to hesitation, a chance to back out and delay another day, another week. Another lifetime. No. Sometimes the only way to live life to the fullest was to bypass the safe, the rational, and leap into the fray.

Besides, he didn’t need a second fix; he feared overdose.

“Yes,” said Martin. “I suppose I do.”

“I’m guessing that’s not a badge in your pocket?”

Martin shook his head. The youth was lovely. He had sharp cheekbones and a taste for glamour. Eyeliner accentuated his long lashes and a touch of rouge drew attention to his soft lips set against a hard mouth. He cast cautious glances around the courtyard, although they were alone and a short dash to a major street.

Martin withdrew his hands from his pockets and held them up. “No, I’m not a cop or a social worker or some nut job. Though maybe I am a bit nuts to hang around here while the sun goes down.”

“You got cash?”

“How much are you asking?”

The smile he flashed Martin sent his heart aflutter. The blood rushed south, and Martin turned his head in as casual a manner as possible, trying to shield his mounting excitement and the overt joy he felt for his resurrected libido.

“Depends,” said the youth, “on what we’re talking about.”

Martin told him. Negotiations ensued and ended abruptly. The youth had all the chips. Martin was new to this sort of exchange of services, and the youth had pegged him right off as a newbie and milked him for more than he might usually have gotten away with. Ultimately, Martin was compliant. The final sum wasn’t unreasonable. Not for him anyway, who would have gladly paid double for a boy so lovely.

“Okay,” he said once Martin had dished out half the payment on good faith. “I’m going to make a call on my cell. In ten minutes I’m going to make another one. Then another when we get to your place, and then one more before I leave.”

Martin frowned. “I assumed this was all going to be anonymous.”

“You can listen to what I say. It’s just a precaution.”

“A precaution?”

“It’s my thing. Call me paranoid.”

“No, sorry, I understand.”

“Safety first.”

“Right.” The perpetual nagging doubt Martin had fought hard to repress was beginning to surface. Maybe this was not such a good idea. Maybe he should have gone to the video store instead, or spent the night downloading from some preferred websites—although these were pale alternatives to flesh and blood. He’d made it this far; farther than he would have imagined. The boy had a right to be cautious. In his line of work it was probably as necessary as using a condom.

And he was attractive, tantalizing, sensual . . . downright
hot
. Really fucking hot! He was wearing leather pants that beautifully described his trim and round buttocks. The black-collared shirt was buttoned down to reveal just a glimpse of that smooth, tawny chest. A veering bulge even hinted at his endowment. The kind of smolderingly beautiful hunk Martin would surreptitiously ogle from a distance and quickly memorize for later recall, once he was alone and horny.

He made the call then, saying only, “It’s me, yeah, we’re leaving,” and hanging up.

“Right,” Martin repeated. “Let’s go then.”

“Lead the way.”

He took side streets and alleyways, moved swiftly across quiet residential neighborhoods, and cut through two small parks, one of which had a rowdy gaggle of teens around the swing set, who were too busy mucking about to pay them the slightest attention.

Martin never once glanced back. He reached a district of militant townhouses, zero traffic, and one stray black cat. Not a curtain stirred; no bored or nosey neighbors here. It was the sort of dead pseudo-suburban street that made you believe you had entered The Midwich Cuckoos novel.

Once Martin had climbed the steps to his door and put the key in the lock, the boy was there, standing next to him, smelling of cloves and cinnamon. Martin went in first, then stood aside in the narrow hallway, letting the boy pass in order to shut and lock the door behind him.

The youth edged sideways, lightly brushing his lovely rear end against Martin’s crotch. Professional technique? Martin wondered, but not unhappily. By now he had a raging hard-on from a battle of suppression he had (somewhat gladly) fought and lost en route.

Don’t be premature, he chided himself.

The youth turned left into the living room and without permission or prompting made himself at home on the leather sofa. Martin hated the trendy “modern look” of most homes, with their leather furniture and surgical steel coffee tables and minimalist decor—but the fetishist in him loved the smell and feel of leather and vinyl. The youth’s attire certainly complemented the furniture.

“Nice pad,” said the youth. “Smells kinda funky though. Earthy.” He glanced around, perhaps looking for potted plants, but didn’t spot any. “What’s your name anyway?”

Martin moved into the adjoining kitchen, visible through a partition in the wall. His reply was delayed as he grabbed two glasses from the cupboard and a bottle of red cabernet sauvignon from below the counter.

How was he to reply? Should he use his real name? Was there any harm in that? Or would it be more thrilling to role play?

“Brian,” Martin replied, hoping to sound genuine. “Brian Kinney.”

The youth nodded, unimpressed. He withdrew his cell phone again. “Okay, Mr. Kinney.”

“Brian.”

“Brian. Gotta make another call.”

“Be my guest,” said Martin, but the youth was already talking, a rapid succession of
yups
and
yeahs
and
all rights
, and it was over.

Was that inane chatter or some sort of code? Martin mused.

“Wine okay?” Martin came into the living room.

“I don’t need a drink. Got any beer?”

“I’m afraid not . . .”

The youth smirked, but accepted the glass.

“What should I call you?” said Martin.

“Whatever you want.”

“Justin?”

Justin shrugged, took a tentative sip of the wine, and pulled a face. Noticing that Martin was watching him, he smiled, dipped his little finger into the glass, and drew a crimson streak over his lips as if applying gloss, then slowly licked it off.

Martin reached for his wallet, took out the remainder of the bartered cash. The boy’s gaze instantly flickered to the money as Martin set it on the table, an instant of weakness revealing itself: he was like a starved animal catching his first glimpse of nourishment in too long an interval.

Justin stood up and went over to Martin, who was now sitting on his black leather recliner. His pants swished and creaked when he moved. He knelt and unzipped Martin’s fly.

“You’re a big boy, Brian.”

Martin sighed.

“I’m gonna gag on this beast.”

But Justin was a pro: he didn’t gag once. He brought Martin close to the edge a couple of times, but backed off at Martin’s gentle command.